


On The Thirteenth Day Of Christmas

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [68]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Multiple Masters (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: My true love sent to me: five attempts at flirting, four absent people, three lethal presents, two different Masters, and a furious Time Lady...
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Missy, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: Prompt Fills [68]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585397
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	On The Thirteenth Day Of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:
> 
> _It's leading up to Christmas, the Doctor is alone with the Fam out shopping, then recent incarnations of the Master/Missy find themselves in Thirteen's TARDIS with some potentially dangerous Christmas gifts._
> 
> A very happy Christmas to all, despite how weird this year is.

“Darling, she does know about this, doesn’t she? She did invite us?” Missy hums, looking up from the Doctor’s console screen, across which she’s signed her name in vivid scarlet lipstick. She thinks about adding a stream of kisses for good measure, but she’s not sure how well the ship might take that provocation; she wonders idly whether caressing some of the TARDIS’s switches might warm her up to the idea, then decides against it. Such attention should be directed towards her dearest pal, or perhaps her future self; not, she reminds herself, towards a sentient time machine, tempting though it may be. Besides, while the idea is certainly aesthetically pleasing, it does seem like a terrible waste of lipstick; she makes a mental note to stop in at the nearest intergalactic department store and stock up after this little sojourn.

“Of course she knows,” the Master shoots back. He rolls his eyes in a way that she _probably_ shouldn’t find quite as sexy as she does, then runs one hand through his hair, disarranging it artistically. This future version of herself is a definite improvement on the last one; sharply dressed – in purple, natch; she feels a flush of flattery at the mere sight of it – and without a hint of eyeliner or silly facial hair, he still manages to simmer with a sense of danger and fury without any of the lack of subtlety of her predecessor. When he’d materialised beside her in a bar with the invitation to drop in on the Doctor at Christmas, she’d been unsure of him; now, as she eyes him up with an appreciative gaze, she can’t help but feel pleased that her future is in much safer hands, especially hands that are slightly less unhinged than her predecessor’s. _And_ he hasn’t got a ridiculous goatee.

There is, also, the unavoidable fact that she fancies him. Arrogant? Certainly. Self-indulgent? Completely. Egotistical? Without a doubt. And yet, she does. It’s a staggering kind of narcissism, she supposes, but he _is_ rather handsome, and he _does_ know what –

“You do know that I was once you?” the Master notes, without looking up from the column he’s currently tampering with, fingers twisting wires together and probing across the crystalline substance in precise, measured movements. “And I know what you’re thinking?”

“So what if you do?”

“It’s not going to happen,” he notes, and Missy sighs with theatrical aplomb, placing one hand to her forehead and feigning a swoon. “I know, but please contain your disappointment, because if this goes well, there’s far better things ahead.”

“What’s far better than us?”

He looks over at her then and smirks maddeningly in a way that gives her an inkling of what he might mean. “Thete, furious. She’s really something to behold when she loses her temper.”

“Good point,” Missy tilts her head to the side, thinking about her own version of the Doctor, the Scottish stick insect, and how deliciously _edible_ he is when he’s angry. She’d tried several times to instigate bedroom antics by blowing up planets or solar systems or enslaving lesser races; she’d kidnapped a few of his friends and threatened several others; as yet she’s succeeded in her intentions only once, but it had been an _excellent_ once. “Is this entire plan just intended to get her to take you to bed? Not that I’m complaining or anything, but it does seem like a very complicated way to initiate such things. Not to mention the fact I’d like to be included.”

“Says the woman who once set fire to half of Pyrovilia Ten to get the Doctor’s attention?”

“That was different,” Missy says tartly. “That was battle strategy. This seems much more…” she dithers for a second, then says: “…intimate. Messing around with her ship…”

“I resent that accusation,” the Master says with faux indignation, looking over at her with wide, wounded eyes. “I’m merely here to spread Christmas cheer to our dearest friend and her pets, per her invitation.”

“You’re here to spread something, but I don’t think it’s Christmas cheer,” Missy mutters, and the Master throws a wrench in the general direction of her head. She snags it from midair with ease, then tuts like a schoolmistress, putting her hands on her hips and staring him down with disapproval. “Temper, temper.”

“Please,” he rolls his eyes again in a manner that’s entirely patronising and yet also maddeningly appealing. “Didn’t you blow up the Bellovia System because there was a traffic jam and you had places to be?”

“That…” Missy scowls. “That was entirely different. They deserved it.”

“You deserved that. You were being…” he licks his lips and smirks at her in a manner that’s determinedly provocative. “ _Smutty_.”

“Gods, do I get any say in how annoying we’re going to become?” Missy protests, mainly to distract herself from the fact that she shouldn’t find her own face that attractive. 

“What, because you’re the pinnacle of tolerability?”

“Is that even a word?” Missy asks with bemusement, leaning back against the console and tapping the spanner against her leg as she does so. “Because it sounds suspiciously made up.”

“All words were technically made up, including ridiculous English ones. Such a primitive language, without any of the refinement of Gallifreyan. Still, it’s without the gendered limits of many others,” the Master notes drily, then beams as something inside the TARDIS column clicks. “Aha.”

“What?”

The console room is plunged into darkness for several seconds, before reilluminating in a deep, ominous shade of scarlet. It’s aesthetically pleasing, Missy has to admit, and appropriately festive; she considers suggesting adding a green hue to really underline the Christmas theme, then thinks better of it. She wonders whether her future self will let her hang up any of the tinsel in her handbag; she’s fairly certain he’d pour scorn on the mere idea, but the temptation is strong. The space is rather devoid of anything festive at all; she thinks longingly of _her_ version of the Doctor, and the warmth of his console room at Christmas, which – she reasons – is probably largely due to Clara’s efforts. She makes a mental note to send her a thank-you note, and possibly some only-slightly-murderous flowers.

“Very nice,” Missy says with begrudging approval. It _is_ very striking, and far more to her taste than the amber glow. “Well done.”

“Nothing to it,” her successor says with faux modesty, closing the hatch and dusting himself down. “Have you got the presents?”

“What am I, your bag lady? They’re exactly where you left them, by the door.”

He grins maniacally and swoops down on the large, gift-wrapped boxes they’d hauled in here. Missy thinks about asking what they contain, reconsiders, reconsiders again, and then decides to keep her mouth shut. Perhaps it’s best not to ask; if it’s herself, it’s definitely best not to ask. Some things are best kept a surprise.

“Think about the look on Thete’s face when her little pets keel over,” the Master says, half to himself and half to her, his tone low and soft and anticipatory as he turns one of the gifts over and over in his hands, smoothing down the golden ribbon wrapped around it and making sure the tag is visible. “She’s going to be devastated. A broken woman. And then she’s going to come after me, and that’s when the real fun begins… that’s when things are going to get _interesting_.”

“You’re murdering her pets for Christmas?” Missy arches an eyebrow, suddenly starting to suspect that the Doctor might _not_ know that they’re here after all. She supposes she’d always known that, but it had been easier to ignore while her future self had been tinkering away and flirting with her as he did so. “That’s… unusually devious, even for you. Us. Whichever.”

“Well, we both know she can do better,” he notes with a shrug, straightening up and tossing a gift from hand to hand with surprising casualness if it is, as he claims, lethal. “She could be travelling with us in splendour in a battle TARDIS; could be conquering planets and ruling entire species and lording it over the universe with iron fists. But instead she’s wasting her time hanging around with a race that have barely evolved since they first crawled out of the primordial ooze from whence they came; it’s insulting to us and our people. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. She is worth… so much more than that. She deserves so much _more_ than that. Especially given what… well. Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Missy reasons, feeling oddly unsettled by the thought of killing three of the Doctor’s friends for sport. Something about it seems rather callous; and poisoned gifts are rather dull. It’s a distinctly understated manner of death; she’d much prefer something devious and prolonged, although in this case, she’s sure she’d prefer anything that left them… well, alive. It’s a distinctly odd feeling, and so with levity she notes: “The girl is rather pretty.”

“I know,” the Master’s smirk returns twofold, his expression becoming positively wolfish. “Believe me, I’ve thought about keeping her around. But you remember the Year That Never Was, don’t you? That family – what was it? The Family Jones? They were terribly insubordinate in the end; ideas about revolting and assassinating us, all sorts of nonsense. They couldn’t just stay in their place; no, they wanted _revenge._ Boring. We couldn’t risk that, could we? Dear little Yasmin will have to die, or else we might instead. It’s sad, but… well. I’m sure if all else fails I could clone her. Replace her memories. All of the looks and none of the hassle of _thoughts_.”

“Seems a terrible waste.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer to regenerate again? I, for one, didn’t enjoy waking up in a muddy field wearing a corset and a pair of too-tight boots last time.”

“What are you wearing that’s going to particularly restrict your future self?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he arches an eyebrow. “Yaz – Yasmin must die. Don’t argue.”

“Do you hear me arguing?”

“I hear you being insubordinate about my well-laid plans, and I despise it.”

Missy throws the wrench back at him with a casual flick of her wrist, the tool spinning through the space between them and catching him on the shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling backwards several paces, although that may be more due to the shock than her throwing skills.

“How dare you?” he snarls, taking a single, menacing step towards her, his expression contorting into one of absolute fury, and just as Missy falls into a defensive stance –

“I dunno, how dare _you_?” a horribly familiar voice asks from nowhere, and he freezes, looking around with wild panic as the Doctor’s voice fills the space around them. “Breaking into my TARDIS? Talking about poisoning my friends?”

“How… where…” he stammers, his eyes widening in horror as he looks around in abject panic, and Missy fights to stifle a laugh. “What…”

“Oh, please, you think I didn’t have the foresight to fit an intruder alarm after the last few little joyrides?” the Doctor’s voice continues in exasperation. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you via the sonic for the last twenty minutes, and…”

The doors to the ship are flung open, revealing the Time Lady, with her three human companions standing behind her in a neat formation that looks almost choreographed; perhaps it had been. Missy thinks about laughing for one wild second then realises it might not be appropriate, and attempts to look apologetic in a bid to curry favour instead. It’s hard to maintain the expression, as it’s her first glimpse of her oldest friend’s new body, and so she settles for careful neutrality as she takes in the long coat, the blonde bob, and the sparkling hazel eyes with approval.

“Oh, you’ve redecorated,” the Doctor says brightly, stepping over the threshold and looking around with distaste. “I don’t like it.”

She holds the sonic aloft and the sparks fly from the hatch the Master had been tampering with minutes prior, before the ship returns to its usual golden hue with a low humming sound. The three humans stand awkwardly in the entryway, visibly unsure of what to do as the Doctor strides over to the pile of gifts arranged neatly beside the console and sonics each of them into inertia.

“You’re no fun,” the Master mutters sulkily, but the Doctor only stares chastisingly up at him.

“I’m a lot of fun,” she counters with a shrug, setting the last gift down and straightening up. “I’m just not especially into murder.”

“Liar,” he counters, but he drops his gaze to the floor, leaving the Doctor to turn her attention to Missy.

“Hello, old friend,” she says with surprising softness, and that takes Missy by surprise; she wonders what this new incarnation knows that she does not, and why the Doctor is looking at her with such aching longing. “Don’t worry, we can draw a line under this.”

“Why are you drawing a line under-” the Master begins, but the Doctor shoots him a dark look and he lapses back into sulky silence.

“This was _your_ idea,” the Doctor notes sharply, an edge to her words. “And you dragged her along as… what? Your accomplice? Your sidekick?”

“I’m nobody’s sidekick!” Missy protests, and the Doctor affixes her with a look of great pity.

“And yet he whistled, and you came.”

The Master snorts, but both Time Ladies ignore him.

“Why are you here, Missy?”

“Because…” Missy swallows thickly, looking from her future self to the Doctor and back again, wondering how honest she ought to be. “Because I wanted to see you. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? Christmas is for old friends.”

“We aren’t friends,” the Doctor says at once, although not without a hint of sadness, and the words hit Missy like a physical blow. Not friends? What has their entire relationship been about then? What has the point of all of this been? “Isn’t that what you always told me?”

“It’s not what I told Clara,” Missy breathes, feeling oddly vulnerable, and the Doctor flinches at the mention of her companion in a way that alarms Missy; she’d spent a long time picking Clara out, and she hopes that the Doctor hasn’t done anything particularly stupid with her. “It’s not… we’re not…”

“Best enemies,” the Master says with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he looks to the Doctor with something akin to adulation. Well, adulation and a strong desire to murder her. “That’s what we are, isn’t it?”

“I know why you’re here,” the Doctor tells him in what is likely meant as a dismissive tone, but her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and Missy feels a swooping sense of bitterness that this version of herself has managed what she has always so dearly wanted. “And after this little stunt, you can forget about it.”

“Murdering your friends has always been our version of foreplay,” he reasons, and the Doctor’s gaggle of humans exchange horrified looks as the Doctor’s blush intensifies. “Play nicely, Doctor. Or don’t. I’m not going to arguing if you want to take the upper hand.”

“I’m not playing anything with you,” the Doctor says with an attempt at magnanimity that falls only slightly short. “You broke into my ship, attempted to kill my friends, and yet you’re still angling for… well, something else? Try again. Try again, maybe by asking nicely, or leave; those are your options.”

“I think I’ll keep-” he catches sight of her expression, which is full of rage and fury and menace, and seems to reconsider. Rolling his eyes heavily, he offers her a mock salute and then slaps the vortex manipulator on his wrist, disappearing with a crackle of artron energy as Missy gapes at the space where he once was.

“Why are you here?” the Doctor asks Missy quietly, turning her attention back to her. “Don’t lie to me this time.”

“Doctor, I don’t understand,” Yaz says uncertainly, and Missy has to admit; she _is_ very pretty. In the old days, she would have turned the Doctor’s head; now... not so much, seemingly. “Who’s…”

“She’s him,” the Doctor explains, not taking her eyes off Missy for a moment; the anger is gone from her gaze, and now she looks mistrustful and sad and a multitude of other emotions, all of which are tinged with something like remorse. “She’s the Master. Or she was, anyway.”

“So you can… you can hang out with yourself?” the older man – Gavin? Grant? Graham? – asks, his tone admiring. “That’s… pretty handy, actually. In a weird way.”

“Not so handy if you’re what they are,” the Doctor says coolly. “Missy, why are you here?”

“I really did want to… to…” Missy’s voice cracks as she strives to understand why the Doctor is looking at her like that; strives to understand why her future self had treated her with such contempt. “And then he started talking about this new body and your new friends and I just… I wanted to see it. I needed to see it; see how we were the same now. How we’d both been upgraded. Only then… then he started talking about murder and…”

“Like you didn’t know what he had in mind.”

“And I just wanted to see you!” a single tear rolls down Missy’s cheek as she bows her head. “Is that so wrong of me? I’m not him yet; you can’t hold me accountable for his crimes. One Christmas with my oldest friend; was that such a selfish wish?”

“Missy…”

“Christmas for humans is about generosity and compassion, is it not?” Missy asks, addressing the Doctor’s friends directly now, her eyes wide and full of tears. “That’s what you teach, isn’t it?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Ryan notes, earning himself a sharp look from the others. “Doc, come on, she seems really genuine.”

The Doctor sighs heavily. “Fine,” she concedes reluctantly, but her eyes remain full of suspicion. “Fine, Missy. You can stay for _one_ hot chocolate and _one_ mince pie. And that is _all_.”

* * *

That evening, as the Doctor tinkers sleepily with the clockwork squirrel that has taken to roaming around the TARDIS with something frighteningly akin to sentience, the psychic paper buzzes in her pocket. Extracting it, she removes her goggles and peers at it as words appear on it in a horrible familiar Gallifreyan hand:

_She put a biological nanite in the hot chocolate that’s going to make you sleepy, sleepy, sleepy…_

_And then she’s going to kidnap your friends and burn Earth to the ground._

_I can reverse it._

_All you have to do is say the word._

_Koschei_

The Doctor swears under her breath, sighs heavily, and resigns herself to the inevitable.


End file.
